


a fish hook, an open eye

by quensty



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26937052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quensty/pseuds/quensty
Summary: Their lives have been swept in after whitecaps and dragged into uncharted waters, but the push of the current remains the same: Hannibal attends art galleries. Will fishes.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	a fish hook, an open eye

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from margaret atwood's _power politics._

“Relax, Will.”

Will, ignoring this, toys with his cufflinks for the thirteenth time—an unlucky number.

The last time he wore a suit was on his wedding day. It had been a gray rental tux that was roomy around the shoulders and probably would have irritated Hannibal had he ever seen it. Molly never cared what Will wore, used to smile when Will came in with motor oil smeared on his coat like she thought it was funny. Hannibal, on the other hand, enjoys seeing Will wear the cashmere shirts he buys him, the Italian leather shoes, the satin jackets—and the slimming black three-piece Will has on now, complete with a silk blue tie.

“I warned you once I wasn’t good company,” he reminds him.

“What you lack is comfort, not decorum.” Hannibal glances at him and straightens his sleeves. His fingers smooth out the wrinkles on his collar. Then they linger. Will peeks up at him. “You look immaculate.”

“I should hope so,” Will says. “I’m wearing a small fortune.”

Just then, a woman in a low-cut dress approaches them, extending her gloved hand toward Hannibal, and Will both mentally and physically takes a step back.

If the last few months have done anything, it is prove that no matter the country, socialites gravitate toward Hannibal. They’re enchanted by him, the art curator with all his charming European mannerisms and exotic elegance. Hannibal, in his maroon check suit, is untouchable and that much more tempting for it, like the shiny poisoned apple hanging off a rotting tree.

When Will looks at him, all he sees is a thicket of bone, smells the faintest hint of blood and damp earth. He feels fur against his skin, feels antlers curl back from the crown of his head. But Will has known Hannibal for over half a decade, and though there are some things that still hurt to poke at, Will has forgiven Hannibal his nature.

Hannibal mentally reels Will back in with a warm, broad hand on the small of his back. He introduces the woman as Elaine Alvarez, an old name in the antique business visiting from Spain.

She turns to face Will with an expression decidedly colder than the one she extended to Hannibal, especially after she catches the band around his finger. “Mr. Andris,” she says. “A pleasure.”

“Likewise.”

Hannibal’s gaze sweeps over them, curious, but Will ignores this, too. Instead, he half-listens as Hannibal talks about Bernini’s Saint Sebastian and imagines the wide expanse of a church, bright in his mind. He imagines the candles lit and a softly murmured prayer suspended in the air.

***

“Is it wise to be socializing at elite art galleries?” Will asks later—not that evening, but on a similar one. The sky has gone orange with the setting sun. Even what little gust passes for wind in Havana is warm, tastes salty. Will is damp under his fishing vest, and the padded material of his chair sticks to his bare arms.

Hannibal sits next to him, his legs crossed, reading a book. At the question, he bookmarks his page with his thumb and considers it. This quality is one Will always liked: No matter what he asks or how many times he asks it, Hannibal always answers as if contemplating it for the first time.

“It’s a risk,” Will continues.

“I agree,” Hannibal says.

“Then why do it?”

“There’s a certain irresistibility that comes with flaunting one’s good fortune.”

“It’s not me those people are interested in seeing. I imagine you’ll be receiving offers for a mistress sometime soon.”

“Adultery is unbecoming,” Hannibal says. His mouth curls into one of his almost-smiles when Will snorts. “Are you feeling protective over our lifestyle, Will?”

“I feel... vigilant.” He pauses. “What do you feel?”

Hannibal’s face blanks. It doesn’t happen often. Only when he’s been caught without a practiced expression at the ready, which is why it's no surprise when he says, “Living in fear is no way to live. I’ve always preferred to take good things as they come.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“By your lights, perhaps not.”

“I’m remembering why you liked to dance,” Will says. “All that sidestepping.”

There’s a beat of considering silence. Hannibal licks his lips, expression slightly shuttered but no less intent for it. Unblinking eyes and snake-like ease. (In Will’s mind, he adds to the ever-expanding list of things Hannibal is like: a stag, an all-black figure with burnt coals for eyes, a serpent—maybe that makes Will the apple. Or maybe Eve.)

“I often imagined what it would be like,” Hannibal says. “Showing you Florence properly. Sometimes I still do. Walking in all the places the ghost of my younger self still haunted with you at my side.”

“Chasing your ghosts away?” Will asks, though he already knows what Hannibal really means. They both know, but Hannibal clarifies anyway, “So every version of me could experience you.”

Will swallows. He notes dimly that the water in the lake is still running, still lapping softly against the rocks and shining blue-green under the evening light. The birds still chirp, the insects still buzz, but it all feels outside reality. They’ve always known how to crawl so far under the other’s skin they forget about everything else.

When Hannibal palms his face then, thumb briefly sweeping over Will’s scar, he lets Hannibal pull him into a kiss, lush and sweet and hot. Like the taste of fruit left to bake under the sun. Earth-shaking, like that first splash of saltwater and blood.

**Author's Note:**

> i am back on my hannibal bullshit @[cleromancer](https://cleromancer.tumblr.com/) and more general bullshit @[quensty](https://quensty.tumblr.com/)


End file.
